


Wish Upon A Star

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark fic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Psychosis, Torture, canon from a different pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:25:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: Bellatrix only wants him to revere her and so she’ll do anything he asks.





	Wish Upon A Star

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Twistmas](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Twistmas) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Wishing upon a star.
> 
> This story was written for The Slytherin Cabal’s Twistmas 2018. This might be the darkest story I’ve ever written and it’s not really a romance, so... fair warning. :D
> 
> Part of this story takes place in the Department of Mysteries during Order of the Phoenix. If anything looks familiar, it is not mine.

There are whispers in the dark corners of her mind that say he’s coming. Someone says it’s Christmas and she thinks he’s the best gift. She wishes for him to turn up, hopes and begs and pleads with the voices inside of her head that he’ll show up and spare her from this awful place. She hates it here, hates the constant moaning and screaming and begging of the prisoners that surround her. All she wants is him; she wants to worship him and adore him and kill for him. 

She’s choking on these emotions, the things she doesn’t understand. What’s this thudding in her chest? Why does it creep up her throat and twist its way around her tongue and make her jaw clench down so tight that she can feel it pulsing in her temples? People actually enjoy these things, these feelings? 

It makes her want to puke.  

Sitting in a stinking, moldy prison for a decade is fucking  _ nothing _ compared to the erratic and chaotic emotions that are bubbling within her. It’s like she has acid in her stomach and it’s licking its way up every nerve, every vein, of her body. 

Just as the wind whips around the isolated rock, it fills her ears and makes her hands freeze. She hates this wondering, waiting, the excitement, the letdown. She feels like she’s crashing like the waves outside, over and over again. But when she opens her eyes, she’s still sitting on a rotten cot in the middle of a dark, cold, empty cell. 

He’s coming. She can feel it. And this is why she’s a fucking wreck. Will he know how much she’s sacrificed? How many pieces of her soul are torn and jagged and misplaced? Will he be proud of her? Finally see her? Exalt her? 

Everything inside her is  _ screaming _ yes. But she lies to herself quite often and this should be no different. 

Days pass before something finally happens. The bars of her cell blast apart and he’s standing there, cloaked in the darkest black, face pale and scarred from the dark magic he’s dabbled in. He’s even more marred now, so long after his exile, but she doesn’t see it. Not really. His mind is still there, still sharp, as it pushes into hers and caresses her memories from the night he left her. It stings and it burns and her eyes water from the pain of it, but she clenches her molars and she lets him push further and harder and then she’s suddenly on her knees. 

“Bellatrix.” Her name comes like a soft purr from his lips. She preens under the attention and dares to glance up at him. “My most precious friend.”

“My Lord.” Her voice is rough because she hasn’t used it but for screaming in so long. “You’ve come for me.”

“Indeed,” he says and places a hand on top of her wild, raven curls. “I’m in need of your particular brand of loyalty. And discretion.”

“Of course, my Lord, my master.” 

Bellatrix takes the hand he holds out to her and hoists herself onto her feet. He offers his elbow and she takes it greedily, as if touching him somehow bolsters her credibility with him. It does to everyone else, for no one else is so important as to receive a personal escort from Azkaban by their Dark Lord. 

They apparate to a dark location and she’s not sure she’s seen it before. She doesn’t care where it is, because she’s with him and he’s going to give her purpose and that’s all that matters. 

“This is the home of my late father,” he tells her. 

He doesn’t let go of her arm as he drags her quickly forward and into the home. She doesn’t ask more, doesn’t need to know. Her nerves are on fire with the pride she feels knowing that he’s confiding in her. She feels alive for the first time in ages and without the effects of dementors, she’s finally able to think.

“I need a service from you, Bellatrix.” The Dark Lord perches himself on a throne-like seat in front of a fire and beckons her over with a spindly, pale finger. 

“Yes, my Lord.” She kneels next to the chair and bows her head. “Anything, my Lord.”

“There is one person whom Harry Potter looks to,” The Dark Lord says as if to himself and Bellatrix is pleased to be included in the moment. She watches him like one might watch their favorite celebrity. “Your cousin, the slippery one whose brother gave his life for my cause.” 

“Sirius.” She hisses the name, disgust like acid on her tongue. “He’s no family of mine, My Lord. Disgusting blood traitor, he is!” 

“Good.” He seems to float over to her, so much closer than is proper, and she shines under his attention. Something squeezes at her heart when his thin, pale finger traces a line down her face. “Kill him.” 

The smile that graces her face isn’t kind or genial, but cold and cruel and excited. In her mind’s eye, Bellatrix is envisioning all the various ways that she can torture, maim, and kill her least favorite cousin. She can flay him alive and she can coax death from him slowly. Let him stew in his own filth until he begs her to end it, until he’s driven to insanity with the pain of it. 

The Dark Lord catches her gaze and she can feel his mind entering hers, the cool lick of pleasure that he tastes in her thoughts and he spares her a proud laugh. She’ll treasure it forever and ever. He presses something long and hard into her hand and her fingers grasp it like they’ve been missing it forever. Her wand, unyielding, powerful in between her fingers and desperate to cause mayhem under her guidance. 

“Excellent,” he whispers in her ear, as if he, too, can feel the happy reunion of witch and wand. “It must be done on my orders and not a moment sooner, do you understand?” 

“Yes, My Lord, oh yes.” Her words are breathy and raspy, but filled with the type of joy that only murdering deplorable filth could possibly give her. “I am ever at your service and I am proud to carry out this sacred action under your command.” 

It’s months before she has permission. Months of waiting and never asking. She’s desperate for it, clinging to the thought that she can finally kill her cousin and destroy the last of the blood traitors that have been so detrimental to her image in The Dark Lord’s eyes. She knows that Sirius is locked away in his old house, the pieces of the Black Family and their legacy all belong to him and she’s angry. It twists in her gut that his grubby hands would even think to touch the magical items that should belong to her, things she could use to sway The Dark Lord’s eye to her favor. 

When she sees him in the dank room at the bottom level of the Ministry, it’s too good to be true. He’s emotional, distracted, not paying attention to the battle. He’s focused only on the little baby brat boy Harry Potter and not watching as she sneaks around the room and stalks him like a jungle cat might stalk its prey. 

He’s not half the wizard he was when they were kids. He’s sickly looking, covered in so many permanent markings but they mean nothing. He wears his soul on his body and that is his greatest mistake. He’ll die for it. She only hopes that she can capture rather than kill. Bellatrix wants to watch the light leave his eyes a little at a time until it fades into a black hole and leaves him nothing but a shell. 

Then she’ll kill him and string his body up somewhere Potter can see. 

She’s practically giddy with the thought of it and fingers the wood between her fingers. It’s precious and its magic strokes her as she promises all of the wonderful things they’re going to do together once her cousin in under her charge. 

A blue light flies by her cheek and Bellatrix’s matted black curls whip along with her face to the source of the spell. “The abomination!” She shrieks as she hitches up her cloak and bolts toward Nymphadora – another blemish on the Ancient House of Black.

“Filthy half-breed!” Bellatrix slashes her wand through the air and sends a fiery bolt of red toward the girl. She ducks and Bella screams a raw sound from the back of her throat. “Stand still so that I can tear your skin away, you dirty shapeshifter!”

The purple-haired auror growls and Bellatrix mimics the sound in a childish way. She laughs and dances around the spells. Like a dance she’d learned in her youth, Bellatrix’s footwork is precise as she slinks through the chamber, higher and higher up the steps. High ground is the most important aspect of any duel and she’s standing tall above her niece with a wicked grin on her face. 

“You’re fighting a losing battle here, Auntie,” Nymphadora tells her before firing off another jet of light. Vines break through the cement ground and attempt to restrain Bellatrix to the spot. “You’ll never leave Azkaban when I get ahold of you!” 

Bellatrix cackles and licks her lips in an exaggerated way. She’s taunting her niece and watches the anger flash behind her eyes. “You feel that rage, ickle Tonks? Use it,  _ mean it! _ ”

They exchange several more spells. Bellatrix is hit with something so cold that it gives her pause for only a moment and then she’s fighting harder. Fuck killing Sirius – she’ll make this bitch pay for attempting to thwart her. 

She throw a bright orange jet of light from her wand and it hits the little, disgusting metamorphmagus in the shoulder. She crumples like a house of cards. Bellatrix tosses her hands up in the air and jumps from foot to foot with a cry of victory on her lips. 

It’s short lived, however. A bolt of bright light whizzes by her hip and she’s staring at the furious face of her least favorite cousin. He’s panting and glaring and she’s smiling back at him with a condescending gleam in her eye. 

“Oh, cousin!” She tosses a spell and he dodges. “Are you here to save the little bitty Potter boy? You know he’s going to die –  _ so painfully _ – and it’ll be all your fault!”

Sirius snarls and advances on her. They meet in a flurry of spells. Duck and run, dive and aim, move and fire. She’s fighting so hard that her breath is leaving her in chaotic puffs of air and he’s following every step she takes. The room is lit in brilliant colors and the smoke from rogue hexes is filling the chamber, making it harder and harder to see the longer it goes on. 

They’re on the floor of the chamber and she’s so close to him that she can see the pain in his eyes. She loves it, seeing him warring with himself even as he’s fighting her. He’s going to die, she can feel it. The excitement of his impending death is shooting sparks of life up her spine and through her blood. She desperately wants to capture him, she wants to hold him in a little dungeon for years and years and rip away his life one tiny piece at a time. She wants him to live to watch Harry Potter fall and she wants to feed him pieces of the boy he loves so desperately. 

“The Dark Lord is going to kill you all,” she tells Sirius almost in an intimate sort of voice, as one might use when seducing a lover. “I wish, dear Sirius, that he’ll forgive me for not torturing you before I steal your life away.” 

“Ha!” The mutt barks a laugh at her, haughty just like she expects. He’s a fool and she’s so much smarter and cunning than he’ll ever be. It’ll be the death of him. “Bellatrix Lestrange, you will rot in Azkaban until the rest of your sanity is –“

Bellatrix doesn’t like small talk. She launches a crimson spell at Sirius and he ducks. She screams so loudly that it rips her throat, but she swallows around the feeling and ignores it. That’s when her eyes land on the Potter brat and she smirks; he’s watching. 

“Come on, you can do better than that!” he yells, and Bellatrix steals her glance from the boy back to her cousin. 

She thrusts her hands forward and fires a second jet of red light. It hits him dead center of his chest and Bellatrix screeches in victory. Her cousin’s eyes are wide, eyebrows high on his forehead as he clutches at his chest. Everything happens in slow motion; Potter races forward with his wand drawn and her blood-traitor cousin falls and falls and falls back into a thin veil in the middle of the archway. He’s gone and he’s dead and she can feel the static in the air as it crackles around her in the most magnificent way.

Bellatrix dances around in a circle with her feet pounding against the cement. He’s dead and she’s going to make her master so happy that he’ll venerate her above all others. The excitement of her achievement is thudding a frenzied melody against her chest and her entire being vibrates. She can’t even contain the emotion, so they escape her in squeals of glee as she bolts from the bottom of the room and runs up the stone steps. 

The feeling of killing her cousin, one of the last traitors of the House of Black, wears off before she’s able to fully enjoy it. Hours after the battle, and quite a substantial loss to their side, Bellatrix is standing in Malfoy Manor with her master before her. She drops to her knees and she begs, pleads, for him to have mercy on her. He stares down at her, red eyes narrowed and trained on her mind. He doesn’t make it gentle, he forces his way into her mind and shreds apart her memories. Her cousin laughing at her, the Potter boy trying to Crucio her, the way she screams and runs from Dumbledore. He watches them all and he is furious. 

When he pulls out of her memories, she heaves. Her sallow face stares at his feet because she’s not worthy enough to look him in the eyes any longer. Bellatrix feels hollow, as if every good thing is sucked from her and replaced with hopelessness. These emotions, the desperation she feels from them, claw at her chest and she tries frantically to stop them. They burn like an intense flame right in the pit of her stomach. 

The Dark Lord’s eyes are still on her, she thinks, and so she keeps her head bowed. All she wants to do is scream and rip the feelings out from the inside, but she stays so still, so motionless, that it almost looks as if she’s but a shell of a witch. Her wand lies just out of reach and when his toes curl around the wood, she winces.

“My most loyal servant,” he finally says to her, so quietly that she almost can’t hear him over the sound of her ragged breath. “How  _ dare you _ ruin everything I have worked for!” 

She hears the whip of his wand from his side to his chest. Bellatrix tenses, she knows what’s coming. She closes her eyes and she prepares to feel the sting of torture once again all over her body and inside every nerve. But it doesn’t come. 

“Look at me,” he commands her, “Look into my eyes, Bellatrix.” 

It takes her but a beat to lift her chin and find his eyes again. They’re livid, redder and more incensed than she’s ever known them to be. Directed at her, he’s angry with  _ her. _ Whatever emotion it is, it fills her up and threatens to suffocate her. She’s choking on it, gagging under the strain of it. His wand is in her face and she’s swallowing around disappointment and before she feels the pain of torture, she is screaming. 

The fire hits her first. It licks every pore on her body. And then the needles stab her, like tiny hot pokers that reach down to every nerve and pierce every blood vessel. The worst, though, is the way he imposes himself inside her mind again. Pushing, splitting, destroying every single good memory she has in his service. The Christmas Day she knew he was coming to save her, the moment he entrusted her with a mission, the feeling of ecstasy when she killed her cousin and fulfilled his wishes. They’re burned and tattered and she’s sobbing and the tears are like glass against her cheeks.  

But she doesn’t close her eyes. And she watches it all across his face. He’s not smiling, his lips are pulled tight, eyes narrowed. Her back arches and her arms fling to the sides like she’s being crucified under his torture. She shrieks, she cries, but she doesn’t beg him to stop because Bellatrix knows that she deserves this. He forces that thought into her head; this is all her fault and he doesn’t want to see her in such a state, but how else will she learn? 

The sensations stop. Her body falls limp. Her heavy lidded eyes want to close but she can see the warning in his eyes; don’t look away. Her muscles twitch. She’s on fire and it hurts everywhere and she wonders if he’ll ever think of her the same again. All she wants is for her master to trust her, to be by his side and revered by all others. Is that gone? She holds back a sob as she feels the disappointment he feels roll through her thoughts. 

“Bellatrix,” he whispers and places a finger on her chin. “I wish you could see what I see.” 

“M-My Lord?” The words hurt. Her throat is raw and tight. She’s sure the gravelly tone is from the screaming she’s done. But even getting the breath together to utter a single syllable hurts. “W-what do you s-see?” 

His pale smile is like a light that keeps her going. It explodes inside of her and she clings to it, uses it to build her strength up again. 

“My most loyal witch.” Her Master drags a fingernail up the sharp cut of her jaw and she shivers. “You’ve failed me, but look at what you’ll withstand for me.” 

His wand drops to his side and his hand leaves her face. A wide, proud grin pushes at her cheeks and she feels the final spasms of her muscles from the torture. She shoves it down, deep and underneath many layers of her mind. Bellatrix will not think on it, she will learn from it and move on. He knows she will and that’s why he values her so. 

“I have a new mission for you, Bellatrix.” He turns from her and she struggles to stand. Her bones crack and her joints are stiff as she scoops her wand into her hand. “Your nephew, Lucius’ boy…”

“Draco,” she whispers. “Yes, My Lord. He is loyal and he lives to serve you.” 

“He will take The Dark Mark.” He’s facing her again and Bellatrix straightens her shoulders. Yes, she can convince Draco to take the mark; he’ll do it by choice or by force, she decides. “And then, he will pay for the sins of his father.” 

Bellatrix ducks her chin. “Lucius will not –”

“Lucius is back in Azkaban and can  _ rot _ there.” He’s not fucking around. Bellatrix’s eyes grow wide at the implications; he forgives her, but he will not forgive Lucius. She laughs, a cackling sound that carries around the empty room. “Go fetch the boy – he has a mission to fulfill and  _ you _ will help him do it.” 

“Oh yes, My Lord,” she agrees with such pride bubbling in her chest that she can hardly breathe. “I wish nothing more than to please you, master. I will do whatever is necessary to –”

“Murder Albus Dumbledore.” 

She nods as she departs the room and her heart is beating erratically in her chest but it has nothing to do with the feelings The Dark Lord instills in her. It’s fear, to entrust such a mission to a young Malfoy, it’s almost as if he’s setting them up for failure again. But she won’t dwell on it. She’ll do exactly as she’s promised and she’ll help Draco to kill the old bastard headmaster of Hogwarts. And then she’ll prove her worth. He’ll have no choice but to revere her then. 

When she enters the den where Narcissa and Draco are sitting, both pale and fretting about the whereabouts of their patriarch, Bellatrix holds her head up proudly. 

“Draco,” her hushed tones carry through the room, “The Dark Lord wishes for you to perform a service.” 

All she wants is The Dark Lord; she wants to worship him and adore him and kill for him. No matter the cost.


End file.
